THE  LIBRARY 

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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


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LYRICS 
ARTHUR  SYMONS 


LYRICS     BY    ARTHUR 
SYMONS 


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}  J        ,   J   ^         >    3    >      J 


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PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS    B    MOSHER 

MDCCCCVII 


FIRST   EDITION, 
SECOND   EDITION, 


OCTOBER,    1903 
OCTOBER,    1907 


:y 


a 


FOUNTAIN  COURT 

a  Arthur  Symons. 

LA  cour  de  la  fontaine  est,  dans  le  Temple, 
Un  coin  exquis  de  ce  coin  delicat 
Du  Londres  vieux  ou  le  jeune  avocat 
Apprend  I'etroite  Loi,  puis  le  Droit  ample: 

Des  arbres  moins  anciens  ( mais  vieux,  sans  faute ) 

Que  les  maisons  d'  aspect  ancien  tres  bien 

Et  la  noire  chapelle  au  plus  ancien 

Encore  galbe,  aujourd'hui  .  .  .  table  d'hote  .  .  . 

Des  moineaux  francs  picorent  joliment 

—  Car  c'est  Thiver  —  la  bale  un  peu  moisie 

Sur  la  branche  precaire,  et  —  poesie  ! 

La  jeune  Anglaise  a  1' Anglais'age  ment  .  .  . 

Qu'importe  !     lis  ont  raison,  et  nous  aussi, 
Symons,  d' aimer  les  vers  et  la  musique 
Et  tout  I'art,  et  1' argent  melancholique 
D'etre  si  vite  envole,  vil  souci  ! 

"  Et  le  jet  d'eau  ride  1' humble  bassin  " 
Comme  chantait,  quand  il  avait  votre  age, 
L'auteur  de  ces  vers-ci,  debris  d'orage, 
Ruine,  epave,  au  vague  et  lent  dessin. 

PAUL    VERLAINE. 

Londres,  Novembre,  1894. 


^-K^ftOQ 


CONTENTS 


I 
LOVE  POEMS 


WANDERER'S  SONG 

3 

AT  SEVENTEEN           .           .           .           . 

5 

MEMORY     

6 

IN  FOUNTAIN  COURT 

7 

AFTER   LOVE 

8 

THE  RETURN     

9 

THE  DANCE        

10 

ALLA  PASSERETTA  BRUNA     . 

11 

THE  RAT 

12 

THE  LAST  MEMORY 

13 

THE  SICK  HEART      .          .          .          . 

14 

THE  CRYING  OF  WATER 

15 

THE  GREY  WOLF       . 

16 

II 

MISCELLANEOUS 

FOR  A  PICTURE  OF  WATTEAU 
ROSA  MUNDI      .... 


19 
21 


Vll 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

JAVANESE  DANCERS          ...  23 

LA   MELINITE:   MOULIN-ROUGE       .  24 

THE  OPIUM-SMOKER          ...  26 

THE  OLD  WOMEN     ....  27 

ON   AN  AIR  OF  RAMEAU          .          .  30 
AT  DEIPPE: 

I     AFTER  SUNSET        ...  31 

II      ON   THE  BEACH       ...  32 

III  BEFORE  THE  SQUALL    .          .  33 

IV  REQUIES 34 

IN   THE  WOOD   OF   FINVARA             .  35 

THE  WANDERERS      ....  36 


Vlll 


LOVE  POEMS 


MODERN  BEAUTY 

I  am  the  torch,  she  saith,  and  what  to  me 
If  the  moth  die  of  me  ?     I  am  the  flame 
Of  Beauty,  and  I  burn  that  all  may  see 
Beauty,  and  I  have  neither  joy  nor  shame. 
But  live  with  that  clear  life  of  perfect  fire 
Which  is  to  men  the  death  of  their  desire. 

I  am  Yseult  and  Helen,  I  have  seen 

Troy  bum,  and  the  most  loving  knight  lie  dead. 

The  world  has  been  my  mirror,  time  has  been 

My  breath  upon  the  glass  ;  and  men  have  said, 

Age  after  age,  in  rapture  and  despair, 

Love's  poor  few  words,  before  my  image  there. 

I  live,  and  am  immortal ;  in  my  eyes 

The  sorrow  of  the  world,  and  on  my  lips 

The  joy  of  life,  mingle  to  make  me  wise  ; 

Yet  now  the  day  is  darkened  with  eclipse  : 

Who  is  there  lives  for  beauty  ?     Still  am  I 

The  torch,  but  where' s  the  moth  that  still  dares  die  ? 


WANDERER'S  SONG 


HAVE  had  enough  of  women, 

and  enough  of  love, 
But  the  land  waits,  and  the  sea 
waits,    and    day   and    night    is 
enough ; 
Give  me  a  long  white  road,  and  the  grey  wide 

path  of  the  sea, 
And  the  wind's  will  and  the  bird's  will,  and 
the  heart-ache  still  in  me. 


Why  should  I  seek  out  sorrow,  and  give  gold 

for  strife  ? 
I  have  loved  much  and  wept  much,  but  tears 

and  love  are  not  life ; 
The  grass  calls  to  my  heart,  and  the  foam  to 

my  blood  cries  up. 
And  the  sun  shines  and   the  road  shines,  and 

the  wine's  in  the  cup. 


I  have  had  enough  of  wisdom,  and  enough  of 

mirth, 
For  the  way's  one  and  the  end's  one,  and  it's 

soon  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ; 
And  it's   then   good-night  and  to  bed,  and  if 

heels  or  heart  ache, 
Well,   it's    sound    sleep    and   long   sleep,   and 

sleep  too  deep  to  wake. 


AT  SEVENTEEN 

YOU  were  a  child,  and  liked  me,  yesterday. 
To-day  you  are  a  woman,  and  perhaps 
Those  softer  eyes  betoken  the  sweet  lapse 
Of  liking  into  loving  :  who  shall  say  ? 
Only  I  know  that  there  can  be  for  us 
No  liking  more,  nor  any  kisses  now, 
But  they  shall  wake  sweet  shame  upon  yourbrow 
Sweetly,  or  in  a  rose  calamitous. 

Trembling  upon  the  verge  of  some  new  dawn 
You  stand,  as  if  awakened  out  of  sleep. 
And  it  is  I  who  cried  to  you,  "  Arise  ! " 
I  who  would  fain  call  back  the  child  that's  gone, 
And  what  you  lost  for  me  would  have  you  keep, 
Fearing  to  meet  the  woman  of  your  eyes. 


MEMORY 

AS  a  perfume  doth  remain 
In  the  folds  where  it  hath  lain, 
So  the  thought  of  you,  remaining 
Deeply  folded  in  my  brain, 
Will  not  leave  me  :  all  things  leave  me 
You  remain. 

Other  thoughts  may  come  and  go, 
Other  moments  I  may  know 
That  shall  waft  me,  in  their  going, 
As  a  breath  blown  to  and  fro, 
Fragrant  memories  :  fragrant  memories 
Come  and  go. 

Only  thoughts  of  you  remain 

In  my  heart  where  they  have  lain, 

Perfumed  thoughts  of  you,  remaining, 

A  hid  sweetness,  in  my  brain. 

Others  leave  me  :  all  things  leave  me  : 

You  remain. 


IN  FOUNTAIN  COURT 

^~I~^HE  fountain  murmuring  of  sleep, 

-*■        A  drowsy  tune  ; 
The  flickering  green  of  leaves  that  keep 
The  light  of  June  ; 

Peace,  through  a  slumbering  afternoon. 
The  peace  of  June. 

A  waiting  ghost,  in  the  blue  sky. 

The  white  curved  moon  ; 

June,  hushed  and  breathless,  waits,  and  I 

Wait  too,  with  June  ; 

Come,  through  the  lingering  afternoon. 

Soon,  love,  come  soon. 


AFTER  LOVE 

/^  TO  part  now,  and,  parting  now, 
^^      Never  to  meet  again ; 
To  have  done  for  ever,  I  and  thou, 
With  joy,  and  so  with  pain. 

It  is  too  hard,  too  hard  to  meet 
If  we  must  love  no  more  ; 
Those  other  meetings  were  too  sweet 
That  went  before. 

And  I  would  have,  now  love  is  over, 
An  end  to  all,  an  end  : 
I  cannot,  having  been  your  lover, 
Stoop  to  become  your  friend  ! 


8 


THE  RETURN 

A  LITTLE  hand  is  knocking  at  my  heart, 
And  I  have  closed  the  door. 
"  I  pray  thee,  for  the  love  of  God,  depart : 
Thou  shalt  come  in  no  more." 

"  Open,  for  I  am  weary  of  the  vi^ay. 

The  night  is  very  black. 

I  have  been  wandering  many  a  night  and  day. 

Open.     I  have  come  back." 

The  little  hand  is  knocking  patiently ; 
I  listen,  dumb  with  pain. 
"  Wilt  thou  not  open  any  more  to  me  ? 
I  have  come  back  again." 

"  I  will  not  open  any  more.     Depart. 

I,  that  once  lived,  am  dead." 

The  hand  that  had  been  knocking  at  my  heart 

Was  still.     "And  L?"  she  said. 

There  is  no  sound,  save,  in  the  winter  air. 
The  sound  of  wind  and  rain. 
All  that  I  loved  in  all  the  world  stands  there, 
And  will  not  knock  again. 


THE  DANCE 

T?OR  the  immortal  moment  of  a  passionate 

-*■       dance, 

Surely  our  two  souls  rushed  together  and  were 

one, 
Once,  in  the  beat  of  our  winged  feet  in  unison, 
When,  in  the  brief  and  flaming  ardour  of  your 

glance. 
The  world  withered  away,  vanishing  into  smoke  ; 
The  world  narrowed  about  us,  and  we  heard 

the  beat 
As  of  the  rushing  winds  encompassing  our  feet ; 
In  the  blind  heart  of  the  winds,  eternal  silence 

woke. 
And,  cast  adrift  on  our  unchainable  ecstasy. 
Once,  and  once  only,  heart  to  heart  and  soul  to 

soul. 
For  an  immortal  moment  we  endured  the  whole 
Rapture  of  intolerable  immortality. 


10 


ALLA  PASSERETTA  BRUNA 

TF  I  bid  you,  you  will  come, 
-'■     If  I  bid  you,  you  will  go. 
You  are  mine,  and  so  I  take  you 
To  my  heart,  your  home  ; 
Well,  ah,  well  I  know 
I  shall  not  forsake  you. 

I  shall  always  hold  you  fast, 

I  shall  never  set  you  free, 

You  are  mine,  and  I  possess  you 

Long  as  life  shall  last ; 

You  will  comfort  me, 

I  shall  bless  you. 

I  shall  keep  you  as  we  keep 

Flowers  for  memory,  hid  away. 

Under  many  a  newer  token 

Buried  deep, 

Roses  of  a  gaudier  day. 

Rings  and  trinkets,  bright  and  broken. 

Other  women  I  shall  love. 
Fame  and  fortune  I  may  win, 
But  when  fame  and  love  forsake  me 
And  the  light  is  night  above, 
You  will  let  me  in. 
You  will  take  me. 


11 


THE  RAT 

T3AIN   gnaws  at  my  heart  like   a  rat  that 
■*-        gnaws  at  a  beam 

In  the  dusty  dark  of  a  ghost-frequented  house  ; 
And  I  dream  of  the  days  forgotten,  of  love  the 

dream, 
The  desire  of  her  eyes  unappeased,  and  the 

peace  of  her  brows. 

I  can  hear  the  old  rat  gnaw  in  the  dark  by  night, 
In  the  deep  overshadowing  dust  that  the  years 

have  cast ; 
He  gnaws  at  my  heart  that   is  empty  of  all 

delight, 
He  stirs  the  dust  where  the  feet  of  my  dreams 

had  passed. 


12 


THE  LAST  MEMORY 

WHEN  I  am  old,  and  think  of  the  old  days, 
And  warm  my  hands  before  a  little  blaze, 
Having  forgotten  love,  hope,  fear,  desire, 
I  shall  see,  smiling  out  of  the  pale  fire. 
One  face,  mysterious  and  exquisite  ; 
And  I  shall  gaze,  and  ponder  over  it. 
Wondering,  was  it  Leonardo  wrought 
That  stealthy  ardency,  where  passionate  thought 
Burns  inward,  a  revealing  flame,  and  glows 
To  the  last  ecstasy,  which  is  repose  ? 
Was  it  Bronzino,  those  Borghese  eyes  ? 
And,  musing  thus  among  my  memories, 
O  unforgotten  !  you  will  come  to  seem. 
As  pictures  do,  remembered,  some  old  dream. 
And  I  shall  think  of  you  as  something  strange, 
And  beautiful,  and  full  of  helpless  change, 
Which  I  beheld  and  carried  in  my  heart ; 
But  you,  I  loved,  will  have  become  a  part 
Of  the  eternal  mystery,  and  love 
Like  a  dim  pain  ;  and  I  shall  bend  above 
My  little  fire,  and  shiver,  being  cold. 
When  you  are  no  more  young,  and  I  am  old. 


13 


THE  SICK  HEART 

/^  SICK  heart,  be  at  rest ! 
^-^     Is  there  nothing  that  I  can  do 
To  quiet  your  crying  in  my  breast  ? 
Will  nothing  comfort  you  ? 

I  am  sick  of  a  malady 
There  is  but  one  thing  can  assuage  : 
Cure  me  of  youth,  and,  see, 
I  will  be  wise  in  age  ! " 


14 


THE  CRYING  OF  WATER 

/^  WATER,  voice  of  my  heart,  crying  in 
^-^      the  sand, 

All  night  long  crying  with  a  mournful  cry, 
As  I  lie  and  listen,  and  cannot  understand 
The  voice  of  my  heart  in  my  side  or  the  voice 

of  the  sea, 
O  water,  crying  for  rest,  is  it  I,  is  it  I  ? 
All  night  long  the  water  is  crying  to  me. 

Unresting  water,  there  shall  never  be  rest 
Till  the  last  moon  droop  and  the  last  tide  fail. 
And  the  fire  of  the  end  begin  to  burn  in  the  west ; 
And  the  heart  shall  be  weary  and  wonder  and 

cry  like  the  sea, 
All  life  long  crying  without  avail. 
As  the  water  all  night  long  is  crying  to  me. 


15 


THE  GREY  WOLF 

**  I  ""HE  grey  wolf  comes  again  :  I  had  made 

-*-        fast 
The  door  with  chains ;  how  has  the  grey  wolf 

passed 
My  threshold  ?     I  have  nothing  left  to  give  : 
Go  from  me  now,  grey  wolf,  and  let  me  live  ! 
I  have   fed   you  once,   given   all   you   would, 

given  all 
I  had  to  give,  I  have  been  prodigal ; 
I  am  poor  now,  the  table  is  but  spread 
With  water  and  a  little  wheaten  bread  ; 
You  have  taken  all  I  ever  had  from  me  : 
Go  from  me  now,  grey  wolf,  and  let  me  be  ! 

The  grey  wolf,  crouching  by  the  bolted  door, 
Waits,  watching  for  his  food  upon  the  floor ; 
I  see  the  old  hunger  and  the  old  thirst  of  blood 
Rise  up,  under  his  eyelids,  like  a  flood  : 
What  shall  I  do  that  the  grey  wolf  may  go? 
This  time,  I  have  no  store  of  meat  to  throw ; 
He  waits ;  but  I  have  nothing,  and  I  stand 
Helpless,  and  his  eyes  fasten  on  my  hand. 
O  grey  wolf,  grey  wolf,  will  you  not  depart, 
This  time,  unless  I  feed  you  with  my  heart? 


16 


II 

MISCELLANEOUS 


FOR  A  PICTURE  OF  WATTEAU 


j^jlERE  the  vague  winds  have  rest; 
^  &  The  forest  breathes  in  sleep, 
'^  Lifting  a  quiet  breast ; 
It  is  the  hour  of  rest. 

How  summer  glides  away! 
An  autumn  pallor  blooms 
Upon  the  cheek  of  day. 
Come,  lovers,  come  away  ! 

But  here,  where  dead  leaves  fall 
Upon  the  grass,  what  strains. 
Languidly  musical. 
Mournfully  rise  and  fall.'' 

Light  loves  that  woke  with  spring 
This  autumn  afternoon 
Beholds  meandering, 
Still,  to  the  strains  of  spring. 

19 


Your  dancing  feet  are  faint, 
Lovers  :  the  air  recedes 
Into  a  sighing  plaint, 
Faint,  as  your  loves  are  faint 

It  is  the  end,  the  end, 
The  dance  of  love's  decease. 
Feign  no  more  now,  fair  friend  ! 
It  is  the  end,  the  end. 


20 


ROSA  MUNDI 

A  N  angel  of  pale  desire 
"^  ^     Whispered  me  in  the  ear 
(Ah  me,  the  white-rose  mesh 
Of  the  flower-soft,  rose -white  flesh  ! ) 
'  Love,  they  say,  is  a  fire  : 
Lo,  the  soft  love  that  is  here  ! 

Love,  they  say,  is  a  pain 
Infinite  as  the  soul, 
Ever  a  longing  to  be 
Love's,  to  infinity. 
Ever  a  longing  in  vain 
After  a  vanishing  goal. 

'  Lo,  the  soft  joy  that  I  give 
Here  in  the  garden  of  earth ; 
Come  where  the  rose-tree  grows. 
Thine  is  the  garden's  rose, 
Weave  rose-garlands,  and  live 
In  ease,  in  indolent  mirth," 

Then  I  saw  that  the  rose  was  fair, 
And  the  mystical  rose  afar, 

21 


A  glimmering  shadow  of  light, 
Paled  to  a  star  in  the  night ; 
And  the  angel  whispered  "  Beware, 
Love  is  a  wandering  star. 

"  Love  is  a  raging  fire. 
Choose  thou  content  instead  ; 
Thou,  the  child  of  the  dust. 
Choose  thou  a  delicate  Lust." 
"Thou  hast  chosen  !  "  I  said 
To  the  angel  of  pale  desire. 


22 


JAVANESE  DANCERS 

''  I   ""WITCHED  strings,  the  clang  of  metal, 

-*•        beaten  drums. 
Dull,  shrill,  continuous,  disquieting ; 
And  now  the  stealthy  dancer  comes 
Undulantly  with  cat-like  steps  that  cling  ; 

Smiling  between  her  painted  lids  a  smile, 

Motionless,  unintelligible,  she  twines 

Her  fingers  into  mazy  lines. 

The  scarves  across  her  fingers  twine  the  while. 

One,  two,  three,  four  glide  forth,  and,  to  and  fro. 

Delicately  and  imperceptibly, 

Now  swaying  gently  in  a  row, 

Now  interthreading  slow  and  rhythmically. 

Still,  with  fixed  eyes,  monotonously  still. 

Mysteriously,  with  smiles  inanimate. 

With  lingering  feet  that  undulate. 

With  sinuous  fingers,  spectral  hands  that  thrill 

In  measure  while  the  gnats  of  music  whirr, 
The  little  amber-coloured  dancers  move. 
Like  painted  idols  seem  to  stir 
By  the  idolaters  in  a  magic  grove. 


23 


LA  M£LINITE:  MOULIN-ROUGE 

OLIVIER  METRA'S  Waltz  of  Roses 
Sheds  in  a  rhythmic  shower 
The  very  petals  of  the  flower ; 
And  all  is  roses, 
The  rouge  of  petals  in  a  shower. 

Down  the  long  hall  the  dance  returning 

Rounds  the  full  circle,  rounds 

The  perfect  rose  of  lights  and  sounds, 

The  rose  returning 

Into  the  circle  of  its  rounds. 

Alone,  apart,  one  dancer  watches 
Her  mirrored,  morbid  grace  ; 
Before  the  mirror,  face  to  face, 
Alone  she  watches 
Her  morbid,  vague,  ambiguous  grace. 

Before  the  mirror's  dance  of  shadows 

She  dances  in  a  dream, 

And  she  and  they  together  seem 

A  dance  of  shadows, 

Alike  the  shadows  of  a  dream. 

24 


The  orange-rosy  lamps  are  trembling 

Between  the  robes  that  turn  ; 

In  ruddy  flowers  of  flame  that  burn 

The  lights  are  trembling  : 

The  shadows  and  the  dancers  turn. 

And,  enigmatically  smiling, 

In  the  mysterious  night, 

She  dances  for  her  own  delight, 

A  shadow  smiling 

Back  to  a  shadow  in  the  night. 


25 


THE  OPIUM-SMOKER 

T  AM  engulfed,  and  drown  deliciously. 
-*■    Soft  music  like  a  perfume,  and  sweet  light 
Golden  with  audible  odours  exquisite, 
Swathe  me  with  cerements  for  eternity. 
Time  is  no  more.     I  pause  and  yet  I  flee. 
A  million  ages  wrap  me  round  with  night. 
I  drain  a  million  ages  of  delight. 
I  hold  the  future  in  my  memory. 

Also  I  have  this  garret  which  I  rent. 
This  bed  of  straw,  and  this  that  was  a  chair, 
This  worn-out  body  like  a  tattered  tent, 
This  crust,  of  which  the  rats  have  eaten  part. 
This  pipe  of  opium;  rage,  remorse,  despair; 
This  soul  at  pawn  and  this  delirious  heart. 


26 


THE  OLD  WOMEN 

THEY  pass  upon  their  old,  tremulous  feet, 
Creeping  with  little  satchels  down  the 
street, 
And  they  remember,  many  years  ago, 
Passing  that  way  in  silks.     They  wander,  slow 
And  solitary,  through  the  city  ways, 
And  they  alone  remember  those  old  days 
Men  have  forgotten.     In  their  shaking  heads 
A  dancer  of  old  carnivals  yet  treads 
The  measure  of  past  waltzes,  and  they  see 
The  candles  lit  again,  the  patchouli 
Sweeten  the  air,  and  the  warm  cloud  of  musk 
Enchant  the  passing  of  the  passionate  dusk. 
Then  you  will  see  a  light  begin  to  creep 
Under  the  earthen  eyelids,  dimmed  with  sleep, 
And  a  new  tremor,  happy  and  uncouth. 
Jerking  about  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 
Then  the  old  head  drops  down  again,  and  shakes, 
Muttering. 

Sometimes,  when  the  swift  gaslight  wakes 
The  dreams  and  fever  of  the  sleepless  town, 


A  shaking  huddled  thing  in  a  black  gown 
Will  steal  at  midnight,  carrying  with  her 
Violet  little  bags  of  lavender, 
Into  the  tap-room  full  of  noisy  light ; 
Or,  at  the  crowded  earlier  hour  of  night. 
Sidle,  with  matches,  up  to  some  who  stand 
About  a  stage-door,  and,  with  furtive  hand, 
Appealing  :     "  I  too  was  a  dancer,  when 
Your  fathers  would  have  been  young  gentlemen  ! ' 

And  sometimes,  out  of  some  lean  ancient  throat, 
A  broken  voice,  with  here  and  there  a  note 
Of  unspoilt  crystal,  suddenly  will  arise 
Into  the  night,  while  a  cracked  fiddle  cries 
Pantingly  after ;  and  you  know  she  sings 
The  passing  of  light,  famous,  passing  things. 
And  sometimes,  in  the  hours  past  midnight,  ree 
Out  of  an  alley  upon  staggering  heels, 
Or  into  the  dark  keeping  of  the  stones 
About  a  doorway,  a  vague  thing  of  bones 
And  draggled  hair. 

And  all  these  have  been  loved, 
And  not  one  ruinous  body  has  not  moved 
The  heart  of  man's  desire,  nor  has  not  seemed 
Immortal  in  the  eyes  of  one  who  dreamed 
The  dream  that  men  call  love.     This  is  the  end 
Of  much  fair  flesh  ;  it  is  for  this  you  tend 

28 


Your  delicate  bodies  many  careful  years, 
To  be  this  thing  of  laughter  and  of  tears, 
To  be  this  living  judgment  of  the  dead, 
An  old  grey  woman  with  a  shaking  head. 


29 


ON  AN  AIR  OF  RAMEAU 

TO   ARNOLD   DOLMETSCH 

A     MELANCHOLY  desire  of  ancient  things 
-^  ^     Floats  like  a  faded  perfume  out  of  the 

wires  ; 
Pallid  lovers,  what  unforgotten  desires, 
Whispered  once,  are  retold  in  your  whisperings? 

Roses,  roses,  and  lilies  with  hearts  of  gold. 
These  you  plucked  for  her,  these  she  wore  in 

her  breast ; 
Only  Rameau's  music  remembers  the  rest. 
The  death  of  roses  over  a  heart  grown  cold. 

But  these  sighs?     Can  ghosts  then  sigh  from 

the  tomb  ? 
Life  then  wept  for  you,  sighed  for  you,  chilled 

your  breath  ? 
It  is  the  melancholy  of  ancient  death 
The  harpsichord  dreams  of,  sighing  in  the  room. 


30 


AT  DIEPPE 


AFTER  SUNSET 

^  I  ''HE  sea  lies  quieted  beneath 

-■■        The  after-sunset  flush 
That  leaves  upon  the  heaped  grey  clouds 
The  grape's  faint  purple  blush. 

Pale,  from  a  little  space  in  heaven 
Of  delicate  ivory, 

The  sickle-moon  and  one  gold  star 
Look  down  upon  the  sea. 


31 


II 

ON   THE   BEACH 

]VTlGHT,  a  grey  sky,  a  ghostly  sea, 
-^  ^      The  soft  beginning  of  the  rain ; 
Black  on  the  horizon,  sails  that  wane 
Into  the  distance  mistily. 

The  tide  is  rising,  I  can  hear 
The  soft  roar  broadening  far  along ; 
It  cries  and  murmurs  in  my  ear 
A  sleepy  old  forgotten  song. 

Softly  the  stealthy  night  descends, 
The  black  sails  fade  into  the  sky : 
Is  not  this,  where  the  sea-line  ends. 
The  shore-line  of  infinity .'' 

I  cannot  think  or  dream  ;  the  grey 
Unending  waste  of  sea  and  night. 
Dull,  impotently  infinite, 
Blots  out  the  very  hope  of  day. 


32 


Ill 

BEFORE  THE  SQUALL 

^  I  ""HE  wind  is  rising  on  the  sea, 

-■-        The  windy  white  foam-dancers  leap  ; 
And  the  sea  moans  uneasily, 
And  turns  to  sleep,  and  cannot  sleep. 

Ridge  after  rocky  ridge  uplifts 
Wild  hands,  and  hammers  at  the  land, 
Scatters  in  liquid  dust,  and  drifts 
To  death  among  the  dusty  sand. 

On  the  horizon's  nearing  line. 
Where  the  sky  rests,  a  visible  wall, 
Grey  in  the  offing,  I  divine 
The  sails  that  fly  before  the  squall. 


33 


IV 

REQUIES 

/^  IS  it  death  or  life 

^-^     That  sounds  like  something  strangely 

known 
In  this  subsiding  out  of  strife, 
This  slow  sea-monotone  ? 

A  sound,  scarce  heard  through  sleep. 
Murmurous  as  the  August  bees 
That  fill  the  forest  hollows  deep 
About  the  roots  of  trees. 

O  is  it  life  or  death, 

O  is  it  hope  or  memory, 

That  quiets  all  things  with  this  breath 

Of  the  eternal  sea? 


34 


IN  THE  WOOD  OF  FINVARA 

I  HAVE  grown  tired  of  sorrow  and  human  tears ; 
Life  is  a  dream  in  the  night,  a  fear  among 
fears, 
A  naked  runner  lost  in  a  storm  of  spears. 

I  have  grown  tired  of  rapture  and  love's  desire ; 
Love  is  a  flaming  heart,  and  its  flames  aspire 
Till  they  cloud  the  soul  in  the  smoke  of  a  windy 
fire. 

I  would  wash  the  dust  of  the  world  in  a  soft 

green  flood  : 
Here,  between  sea  and  sea,  in  the  fairy  wood, 
I  have  found  a  delicate,  wave-green  solitude. 

Here,  in  the  fairy  wood,  between  sea  and  sea, 
I  have  heard  the  song  of  a  fairy  bird  in  a  tree, 
And  the  peace  that  is  not  in  the  world  has  flown 
to  me. 


35 


THE  WANDERERS 

AIT' AN  BERING,  ever  wandering, 
*  '        Their  eyelids  freshened  with  the  wind 
of  the  sea 
Blown    up    the  cliffs  at  sunset,   their  cheeks 

cooled 
With  meditative  shadows  of  hushed  leaves 
That  have  been  drowsing  in  the  woods  all  day, 
And  certain  fires  of  sunrise  in  their  eyes. 

They  wander,  and  the  white  roads  under  them 
Crumble  into  fine  dust  behind  their  feet, 
For  they  return  not ;  life,  a  long  white  road. 
Winds  ever  from  the  dark  into  the  dark. 
And  they,  as  days,  return  not ;  they  go  on 
For  ever,  with  the  travelling  stars ;  the  night 
Curtains  them,  being  wearied,  and  the  dawn 
Awakens  them  unwearied  ;  they  go  on. 
They   know   the   winds  of  all  the  earth,  they 

know 
The  dust  of  many  highways,  and  the  stones 
Of  cities  set  for  landmarks  on  the  road. 
Theirs  is  the  world,  and  all  the  glory  of  it. 
Theirs,  because  they  forego  it,  passing  on 
Into  the  freedom  of  the  elements  ; 

36 


Wandering,  ever  wandering, 
Because  life  holds  not  anything  so  good 
As  to  be  free  of  yesterday,  and  bound 
Towards  a  new-born  to-morrow ;  and  they  go 
Into  a  world  of  unknown  faces,  where 
It  may  be  there  are  faces  waiting  them. 
Faces  of  friendly  strangers,  not  the  long 
Intolerable  monotony  of  friends. 

The  joy  of  earth  is  yours,  O  wanderers, 

The  only  joy  of  the  old  earth,  to  wake. 

As  each  new  dawn  is  patiently  renewed. 

With  foreheads  fresh  against  a  fresh  young  sky. 

To  be  a  little  further  on  the  road, 

A  little  nearer  somewhere,  some  few  steps 

Advanced  into  the  future,  and  removed 

By  some  few  counted  milestones  from  the  past ; 

God  gives  you  this  good  gift,  the  only  gift 

That  God,  being  repentant,  has  to  give. 

Wanderers,  you  have  the  sunrise  and  the  stars ; 
And  we,  beneath  our  comfortable  roofs. 
Lamplight,  and  daily  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
And  four  walls  of  a  prison,  and  sure  food. 
But  God  has  given  you  freedom,  wanderers ! 


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